Summer, by p d lyons

  In June the dead come

October too cold

Perhaps reminiscent of that part of being dead

They’d most like to forget

We talk about the past

After all what else do we have in common?

Mostly women come.

Perhaps because I always went to them

Or maybe death, a vulnerability, makes men shy?

Either way we sit where it is I am these days,

   Outside the kitchen

      By an old apple tree

        Across the sea

           Left behind

            The lands they knew me in

             No longer needing now to wander